


The Winehouse Principle

by apiphile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Blackmail, M/M, bargain sex, toilet sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Winehouse Principle" is apiphile-ese for "the reason you'd fuck someone dirty and wasted", ie. – it'd be fun and they probably won't remember it. This is borderline PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winehouse Principle

Club toilets are not generally renowned their salubrious nature and hygienic charm, and club toilets in Camden are no different on this score; the Electric Ballroom had suffered a couple of near-misses on the demolition front from a council unwilling or unable to accept that the only way to "clean up" the area would be to start shooting crack dealers on sight, and in the course of all the planning permission drama had changed into less and less careful hands, becoming perversely more and more popular as it did.

The toilets, never of course a fragrant and jewelled delight, had grown excessively dingy and urine-soaked, cheerfully coated in increasingly poetic and illegible graffiti by a clientele of students and smackheads, and – as all publically-used toilets the world over – dripping with unexplained greenish ambient water.

As far as Ianto Jones was concerned it simply confirmed his theory that London was wretched and that getting back to Cardiff as soon as humanly possible was the only correct course of action. He straightened his tie and tried not to touch anything.

The door to the bathrooms swung open and shut a few times and a couple of emo kids regarded him with suspicion; probably, Ianto realised with a frisson of age, mistaking him for a bouncer. It was a slightly uncomfortable thought.

The students sauntered with unconvincing nonchalance to the urinals; the door banged open again and the other half of the rendezvous came into the grotty, badly-lit room in a gait that defied rational description. It looked like a case for sexual harassment all on its own.

John Hart took Ianto by the elbow and led him into one of the cubicles.

"You get it?" Ianto asked in a low voice when the door was bolted behind them. His spine pressed uncomfortably against the cistern (which was level with his chest, and missing the top, leaving the waters open to an array of small ziplock bags), and his knees were bent at a peculiar angle around the toilet bowl, but it kept him from standing too close to John and therefore from losing his temper; it was a small sacrifice, this lack of comfort.

John produced a small blue phial from his jacket pocket and held it up to the unearthly dissipation of the anti-junkie lights. "Of course I got it." He held it up, not actually out of Ianto's reach but with the obvious suggestion that he'd jerk it away if Ianto made a grab for it. "Restorative," John added, gazing past it at Ianto's face, "a real bitch to get hold of."

"How much do you want?" Ianto sighed, reaching into his own jacket for the wadge of carefully concealed therein. Outside, someone called someone else a cunt, and the bass of the music throbbed like a vindictive hangover.

"You wouldn't _believe_," John continued, regarding the phial and Ianto with one eye shut, "the things I had to do to get this."

"How _much_ do you want?" Ianto reiterated testily, trying to keep his elbow out of the toilet water and his temper on a short, firm leash.

"Oh, I don't think I want money," John said, turning the phial thoughtfully between his fingers. "Not this time."

"You _always_ want money," Ianto said, temporarily wrong-footed by this unexpected development.

"Not this time," John repeated, snatching the phial back into his fist. His grin was, of course, predatory. Ianto knew this much – if John was smiling, someone was going to suffer. "The kind of things I had to do to get hold of this," John continued, "they require special recompense, Eye-Candy."

"Such _as_?" Ianto's patience wore thinner than the Made In China t-shirts of the club's clientele.

"Payment in kind," John said, and Ianto was both repulsed and alarmed to note how familiar the purr in his voice was, how alike Jack's.

"_No_," Ianto snapped, feeling the colour rise in his cheeks. "You asked for money, you're getting money – "

"And if I'd asked for _you_ in the first place I'd have got you, would I?" John smirked, rolling the phial between his palms as he leant on the toilet door. "Somehow I think you'd have just punched me."

"I'm going to punch you _now_ \- " Ianto warned.

Outside the cubicles someone had left a tap running – the ceaseless splash of Thames Water's finest being wasted made Ianto's bladder fidgety and uncomfortable. JHohn was watching him with close interest.

"Not if you really _want_ the Restorative."

Ianto gritted his teeth. "What _exactly_ do you want from me?"

"I want," John said, savouring the words as though they were solid and delicious in his mouth, "to make you mew like a fucking kitten. Ianto. Jones."

The worst part of this, Ianto thought as he stared almost uncomprehendingly at John's mouth in the aftermath of these dirty words, was that it wasn't _just_ threatening. It, on some horrible level he didn't want to have, was ever so slightly arousing. _Pheromones_, he thought desperately. _Just pheromones_.

"Er, how?" he asked. It wasn't what he'd intended to say, but it wasn't too bad.

John's rotten smile cranked up to new plateaus of objectionable, and Ianto braced himself reflexively. John's hands might come at him any way and he'd be prepared …

So _of course_ John didn't try to touch him. He simply spoke the one sentence that left Ianto so utterly blind with fury that he didn't realise he'd smashed John's face against the empty metal toilet-roll holder until he'd done it, and there was blood, blood from where John'd evidently bitten down into his lower lip.

It was the wrong colour under the anti-junkie lights – the lights designed to hide veins from the eyes of a desperate needle rendered John's blood not startling, vivid red but an eerie, otherworldly greenish-black. The unexpected palette shift left Ianto detached, uncertain, and confused.

John was still smiling. His hands, _now_, were softer than Ianto would have thought, cradling Ianto's head like a child's as he kissed him.

It was short, and again alarmingly tender – long enough to leave Ianto's mouth wet with blood and saliva, to leave the taste copper, of coffee, of cigarettes and of stale alcohol; John tasted of all things addictive. But it was not long; not breath-taking by duration, but by surprise.

There was a tickle on Ianto's cheek, John's nose on the move, and the sound of running water and the thump of the bass were the trickle of blood and the untame thrashings of Ianto's pulse. John kissed Ianto's neck, somewhere between his jaw and his ear, and _now_ his tongue joined the slippery swathe painted on Ianto's skin; now Ianto's treacherous knees became gelatinous and unprotesting.

"Say yes," John muttered into his neck.

"No," Ianto whispered, and John licked him again.

Every hair Ianto _had_ stood up and danced from the roots.

"Say it," John urged, his breath hot and his voice sticky with some unheard-before lassitude of lust.

"Yes," Ianto hissed from between his teeth, his hands clenched around themselves like a supplicant's in prayer. John's thumb pressed the knot of Ianto's tie into the dip of his throat: his other hand had become a scout, flying to the juncture of trousers and shirt, waist and arse.

The process of untucking that which had to be so laboriously and meticulously tucked was swift and savage, and Ianto already felt infinitely more vulnerable as his armour, his _uprightness_, was rapidly undone.

As John's eager hand unhooked his trousers without a hitch, as John's spiteful mouth ate away at his neck (at his resistance), Ianto's brain stated very firmly that he was in no way enjoying this.

His prick, his dick, his stupid genitals, unfortunately, had as always a mind of their own.

He heard John hiss something over his skin that might have been "Oh _yes_" or, for all Ianto understood of it, "Herman Hesse"; John's hand was hot and firm and trapped the traitorous hard-on against Ianto's abdomen with a feverish keenness.

Ianto knew the cistern was taking most of his weight and his _fucking_ dick had got the lion's share of his blood, and there was a second "yes" trapped behind his teeth like angry bile. It wasn't going to escape. It _wasn't_.

John thumbed the head of Ianto's dick with one hand and shook down his trousers with the other.

"Turn around."

_No_."

John squeezed, just enough to blur the line between "pained yelp" and "unwilling groan" into unrecognisability – the sound Ianto made was one he _knew_, but not intimately. He turned, his fingers folded over the lip of the cistern, his legs automatically splayed around the toilet bowl, and while he'd predicted his shirt-tails being lifted from his sweaty back the lips against it came as a shock.

He could not see, only imagine through the fog his disgustingly hard cock threw over his mind as it pushed against John's hand, the smears that John's wounded mouth left over the nameless hinterland between back and buttock as the man half-licked, half-nuzzled, sort of _lipped_ Ianto's skin.

"Fffffu- " Ianto dipped his head. Bit the base of his thumb. Below his face, in the still cistern waters, a roll-up floated into a used condom and stuck to it, as if in an embrace.

Ianto jerked his head away, partly in revulsion and partly because the warm wet pressure on his back had gone and he was startled; he craned his neck, looked back, and focussed just in time to see John slotting two of his own fingers into his mouth.

Concentrating on what this meant was hard; John's other hand was still providing some sort of hideously enjoyable executive massage to every nerve ending in Ianto's dick, and – normally, normally when someone else gave him a handjob it was that tiresome feeling of _you're very kind but I could get this done on my own in half the time_, but John had that knack, Jack's knack, of making it feel like no one else could possibly know how to move their hand just so.

His concentration wasn't helped by the way John's fingers slithered back out of his mouth, stringy with drool and streaked with the light-changed blood that still swilled around John's mouth; they sort of dragged his lower lip with them – Ianto turned to look back into the cistern again, seized his own hand with his teeth and stared through the panoply of discarded items floating below him as if he was trying to memorise them.

John spent so long just stroking Ianto's arse like he'd never seen one before that Ianto had begun lining up a "GET ON WITH IT" in his larynx before he remembered what was happening and where he was and how much he definitely didn't want this in any way.

Keeping that in mind, what with John's palm almost _rippling_ as it went over the tenderest parts of Ianto's dick, was very, very difficult.

"Guh-" was as far as his mouth managed to trick him before he champed down on his tongue and swallowed – with difficulty – the mouthful of saliva he'd somehow been left with.

John's fingers, wet and warm and incomprehensibly alien-feeling, stroked the hairs around his arsehole. The puckering skin. Ianto bit the inside of his mouth and very determinedly did not rock back on his hips in an attempt to force those fingers inside. Not even when, for a second, John's index finger (maybe it was his middle finger, Ianto really didn't give a shit) slipped through the ring of muscle and back out again, and something small but significant snapped inside Ianto's head.

The bathroom door banged twice – once open, and once closed – and John's finger crept back, like an incoming tide. The cistern edge digging into Ianto's fingers might as well not have been there; the toilet bowl between his knees, the chattering gutterpunks in the other cubicles and at the urinals, everything but John's palm squeezing and stroking in front, and the slow tease of his finger behind might as well have been a dream.

Ianto tried and failed not to make a guttural noise and John's knuckles met with the outside of his anus; Ianto tried and failed not to jerk to nowhere in particular, and John's finger bent like he was beckoning.

Ianto hissed, between his teeth, over the back of his hand, ruffling the dank waters of the toilet cistern.

John pressed his middle finger to the first and s-l-o-w-l-y stretched it straight, then bent it round, a two-digit come-on buried inside Ianto's colon, right where it needed to be. Ianto felt like he could map out the exact contours of John's hand by now; Ianto thought that probably said something about him that he wasn't too keen to pursue; Ianto thought _shut up, brain_ and _oh god oh god oh god_ and _wasn't I supposed to not be enjoying this?_ and _shut up, brain_.

And then John's left and right hands began to move in unison and Ianto didn't really think anything very much for the next few minutes; he left big pink tooth-shaped dents in his mound of Venus, he narrowly avoided smacking his head on the dirty, smudged, graffiti'd wall, and somewhere in it all he felt – for a moment – the unmistakeable pressure of a hard-on against the back of one of his thighs. And all was white noise, blood pressure, the sensation of being both completely naked to the bone and having no sense of feeling anywhere at all -

"Come, you bastard," John muttered, his voice so low it took Ianto a while to discern that it was not, in fact, his own thoughts. "Come for me. Now."

And he did something quite ingenious that Ianto recognised from somewhere but couldn't really place, and there was a kind of full-body sneeze, a shaking that rendered his thighs rubbery, an orchestral assault on his heart, and he made a noise like a lost seagull before he could stop himself.

The first two things he noticed when his brain wandered back in were someone outside saying in an amused voice, "I think someone's fucking in that one? But the other two are free," and that his still-hard dick was nestling in a coat of his own semen in the duvet of John's hand.

Without making so much as a cursory wipe of either fist, John reached into his jacket again; Ianto got dressed faster than he had in a very long time, stuffing his shirt red-faced back into his trousers, catching his shirt-tails on his fly, his thighs still weak and wobbling and his ears still thundering with the surge of vasodilatation.

"Guess this is yours now," John said with a kind of triumphant smile that was bloody in the middle and twitchy at the corners. He looked buzzed, more manic than ever. He held up the phial as Ianto straightened himself out with movements too spastic, too convulsive to be nonchalant. "Restorative. The anti-Retcon. A billion times harder to find and a lot more difficult to manufacture." John twirled it about, leaned in, and put one sticky hand to Ianto's cheek.

John kissed him once on the mouth, softly, and once on the neck, softly, leaving – Ianto imagined – a smudgy imprint of a mouth in blood, marred in its outline by the slight lick that accompanied it. He stood back again, holding Ianto's gaze, and dropped the phial into his palm.

"So, however many times Jack's used Retcon on you, and for whatever reason – you'll have all that lost time back. All those memories."

"Oh," Ianto said, trying to edge past him, "it's not for me." He pocketed the phial. "It's for Jack. There are some gaps in his memory he wants to look into."

There was something rewarding, some small triumph, to be had from the way John went rigid against the cubicle wall. Ianto slid the bolt back; John had gone very pale under the strange, buzzing lights of the toilets and looked quite a lot like someone had just walked over his grave.

"Do you ever think," John said in a strangled voice, "that it might be better for things he's forgotten to stay forgotten?"

Ianto gazed levelly at John and said with an icy calm that he almost felt, "What did you do?"

John shook his head and pulled the door open, backing into the toilet to let Ianto out. "It's what _he_ did."


End file.
